Page 12 of Own Me, Outlaw
She arches a brow. "I did break in."
"And I should be pissed about that." I trail a hand down her hip, marveling at the way she shivers under my touch. "But I'm not. I think the mountain sent you."
She blinks. "Is that a metaphor or something?”
I shrug, suddenly feeling foolish. "We've got a saying up here. You stay alone until you can't anymore. Until the mountain sends you exactly what you need."
She's quiet for a beat, and I wonder if I've said too much. Revealed too much.Will she think I’m a crazy mountain hick?
"Do you really believe that?" she asks.
"I didn't."
"And now?"
I tilt her chin up so she's looking me dead in the eye. "I believe you’re meant to be mine.”
Her breath catches, and I swear I feel it right down to my damn soul.
We stay like that for a while, wrapped around each other like we're trying to memorize the feeling. No words. Just skin and heat and something that feels a lot like forever.
Outside, I can hear the mountain waking up—birds calling, branches creaking in the wind. The sound of a world that's always been mine, but somehow feels different now.
Better.
Because she's in it.
Epilogue
Lark
Onemonthlater
I used to think peace was quiet.
Turns out, peace sounds a lot like firewood crackling in a cabin stove, rain tapping against windows, and a man humming low and off-key while he cooks breakfast shirtless in the kitchen.
"Don't burn the bacon again," I call from the couch, teasing him. A sketchbook is balanced on my knees. The drawing I'm working on shows the view from our bedroom window—pine trees stretching toward snow-capped peaks, morning mist rolling through the valleys.
Ourbedroom.
The thought still makes my heart flutter.
"That was one time," he grumbles, and I can hear the smile in his voice.
"It was yesterday."
He shoots me a look over his shoulder—that half-scowl, half-smirk combo that still makes my stomach flip and my pulse quicken. "Maybe I was distracted."
"By what? The screaming smoke alarm?"
He turns fully now, spatula in one hand, dish towel slung over his shoulder. His hair is mussed from sleep, there's a day's worth of scruff on his jaw, and he's wearing nothing but low-slung jeans that should be illegal.
"No," he says, voice dropping to that gravelly tone that makes my toes curl. "By you. Walking around in my shirt. Looking like sin."
My cheeks go warm, but I don't look away. Can't. Because there’s so much in those beautiful eyes of his. There’s the guarantee of multiple orgasms, for one thing. But even more than that, there’s the promise of this amazing life we're building together one careful day at a time.
I close the sketchbook and rise, bare feet silent on the hardwood as I cross to him. He sets the spatula down and pulls me into his arms, and I melt into the solid warmth of him.
